


I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees

by AMereAberration



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Crack Treated Seriously, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Multi, Passing suicidal thoughts, and learning to love again in the process, growing as a person, headcanon that solas has very dramatic internal monologues, post-solavellan break-up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29049108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMereAberration/pseuds/AMereAberration
Summary: Surely, the fact that he has become quite adept at filling the void that Ellana Lavellan has left in his life means that he is very well-adjusted. Surely, his tendency to unfailingly circumvent all the aspects of his life that once involved the green-eyed elf is merely a coincidence. Surely, just because the future he’s been building his life around has been torn asunder right before his very eyes doesn’t mean it’s the end of everything good in his life.He’s fine, really.“You are not fine,” Felassan insists while eating the sandwich Solas had just made for himself, leaving crumbs all over the countertop he had just meticulously wiped down a few moments ago.
Relationships: Fen’Harel | Solas/Female Inquisitor, Past Solas/Female Lavellan, Solas/Female Mage Inquisitor, Solas/Female Trevelyan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by pablo neruda bc i am trash

Solas prides himself to be quite a productive individual.

He wakes up everyday at five in the morning, makes himself breakfast, gets ready for his day as a well respected and tenured professor. He enjoys the long walks to his workplace (really, an hour isn't that long), and at the end of the day there is a small hole-in-the-wall café he had just discovered and now frequents after school hours. Here, he checks papers, finalizes lectures and - when he feels particularly ambitious - tries to make some semblance of progress with his research. When he feels like it, he even goes for a jog at the park. On Sundays, he does volunteer work, where he is verbally abused by a particularly ill-mannered blonde elf. Recently, he has even taken an interest on taking skill building classes, raging from baking to pottery. Maybe even knitting? He is productive all day everyday, only daring to return home when it’s late and his body is ready to pass out. 

Surely, the fact that he has become quite adept at filling the void that Ellana Lavellan has left in his life means that he is very well-adjusted. Surely, his tendency to unfailingly circumvent all the aspects of his life that once involved the green-eyed elf is merely a coincidence. Surely, just because the future he’s been building his life around has been torn asunder right before his very eyes doesn’t mean it’s the end of everything good in his life. 

He’s fine, really. 

“You are not fine,” Felassan insists while eating the sandwich Solas had just made for himself, leaving crumbs all over the countertop he'd had just meticulously wiped down just moments ago. 

He can feel his face twist in irritation before he can stop it, knowing his “friend” would only be gladdened by each rise he manages to pull out of him. _Bastard._ Predictably, Felassan lets out a truly obnoxious laugh at his expense, dirtying Solas’s precious countertops even more. 

“ _Get out._ ” Solas snaps. Felassan only rolls his eyes in response. Solas gives up with a sigh, briefly reminiscing about the times when the man had some semblance of respect for him. 

“Look, Falon, what you’re doing to yourself can’t be healthy. You’re working yourself ragged, you’re barely getting any sleep - you! That was practically your job description back in the day!” Felassan gesticulates dramatically. “You’re taking up all these stupid hobbies like you’re an addict looking for his next fix. What’s next, Solas?” He inquires gravely, “Knitting?!” 

Solas scoffs indignantly. “I will have you know that _knitting_ is a perfectly respectable craft that originated in Ancient Elv-”

“Solas,” Felassan cuts him off, clearly offended. “I can’t be seen around people who wear ugly sweaters.” 

“I assure you, whatever I manage to create will at least be aesthetically pleasing,” Solas retorts easily. 

“I’m merely suggesting that rather than spending your time in your house _knitting,_ ” saying the word as if it personally wronged him, “like the decrepit old person you seem to think you are, you should, _I don't know_ , maybe stop drowning out your feelings with the entirety of Skillshare? Maybe even start to move on from all _this_ , while you're at it." His friend concludes, gesturing to the humble abode he had bought all those years ago with a deep, unfathomable love in his heart and a vision of an achingly beautiful future in his head - not a single piece of furniture out of place since _she_ had decided to leave.

_Easier said than done_ , Solas thinks to himself, but instead deflects with, “I fear that was very ageist of you, Felassan," despite knowing his friend wouldn’t let this go. 

Felassan continues as if Solas hadn’t even said anything, "To be sure, this isn't one of the worst coping mechanisms out there, and I do truly enjoy the banana bread you keep baking for us. Not the eclairs, though, those were just bad."

"It was my first time making them!" Solas retorts defensively. "It's difficult to get the perfect consistency for the choux!" 

Felassan's tone takes a more serious note, however. “Look, Falon, this isn't sustainable. At one point you're going to have to face it. She’s gone, and that’s terrible. But she left because she wanted to find out who she was outside of what you two had - despite how good and wonderful and right it was. You’ve been together for so long that she felt like the two of you didn’t really get that chance. She wasn’t ready for the finality of the kind of life you wanted, Solas, but maybe that doesn’t have to be a completely bad thing. Maybe this could be a chance for you, too.” 

There was only silence for a long while between the two old friends. 

“At the very least, she would have wanted you to be happy, Solas.”

And that’s the thing, _isn’t it?_ He can’t even begin to imagine what happiness could possibly be in this life without Ellana in it. A part of him thinks that he never will.

Solas doesn’t know why, but thinks of the ring. White gold because Ellana thought that yellow washed her out. Eight diamond accent stones that represented all the years they had been together, and that he particularly liked because it reminded him of the starlight glow of her hair. The emerald center stone that he was particularly taken with because they resembled the way her eyes glinted every time smiled. Embossed in the inside was the word that came closest to expressing what she had meant ( ~~ _st_ _ill means_~~ ) to him, words he had whispered against her lips countless of times:

_‘Ma Vhenan_

He thinks of its heavy weight in his left coat pocket all those months ago, how he would consider the piece of jewelry for hours on end. He would think of the perfect way to ask, thousands of scenarios playing in his mind. In the end, he never did get a chance to bring any of those into reality. 

He thinks of how he found her one late evening, a stark silhouette against the moonlight as she sat on their shared bed. Her shoulders were hunched, hands clenched so tightly against the paleness of her thighs, as if threatening to break skin. His eyes trailed to the discarded coat on the foot of the bed, like an afterthought. 

_Oh._

He watched her turn to him for what felt like a lifetime, her eyes red with an ocean of tears. Even in such extreme sorrow, he thought, she was still the most beautiful thing in this world to him. He knew what she would say before she even began to speak.

_“I can’t, Solas. Ir abelas, ‘ma lath. Ir abelas.”_

  
  
  
  


He doesn’t remember when he’d buried his face in his hands, but after what feels like an eternity he manages to look up and remembers how to breathe. Felassan is right there beside him patiently waiting for him to pick up enough pieces of himself to remember what it’s like to be a functional person. Solas can’t help but be grateful to have this, at least.

“Okay,” he hears himself say.

“Okay?” Felassan asks in disbelief, more than anything. To be honest, Solas can’t quite believe what he himself is saying, too. 

And yet-

“Okay.” He confirms with finality.

Because he _wants_ to be better; he _wants_ to be ready; he _wants_ to know that there is some remote possibility in this world where the hole in his chest in the shape of the love of his life can be filled by something that isn’t so transient. 

"At the very least, I will try," he amends. That seems to be enough for Felassan. When his friend responds with a wicked, shit-eating grin, he can’t help but think that he will most definitely regret this decision. But for now, he will enjoy this one good moment and its rarity, with his one true friend. 


	2. Love is so short, forgetting is so long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Solas turns to baking whenever he is overcome by great sadness, and Felassan has alarmingly pointy elbows.

Felassan seems to be completely convinced that the first step to moving on is moving out. Solas begs to differ. 

(Truth be told he is not far from begging.) 

Logically, he knows it is true - that if he wants to stop torturing himself with her absence, he has to first remove himself from what is essentially the monument of it. The theory is sound but he can’t bring himself to actually _believe_ it. 

He can’t possibly coherently explain this to Felassan, so instead he brings up the crown moldings he had installed on each room, the dining table he’d sanded, painted and varnished by his own hand, and the quaint apple tree they’d painstakingly nurtured since it was a sapling, and hopes that his friend understands. Because although this was the place he imagined himself growing old with Ellana in, it was also a home to their shared history. 

He can’t stand the finality of it. The act of packing away all the years of love and joy and memories into flimsy cardboard boxes lined in neat rows only to collect dust - he just can’t bring himself to do it. It feels too much, too real - as if by doing so, she would be lost to him forever.

_Fuck_. 

He sighs, and regrets even thinking about it. This was something that has to be done, and he’s the only half left that can do it. After all, Ellana had absconded halfway across the globe, making a difference, realizing her life-long dream, and rediscovering herself in the process. All the while he is here, left picking up the pieces. 

He is not at all resentful, truly. He wants to be happy for her, he really does. But in that moment, he can’t really bring himself to feel much of anything. Honestly, Solas just really wants to curl up around himself and sleep for a millennia. 

_If someone could just bury him somewhere in the foundations of this house, that would be fantastic. Thank you very much._

If Felassan had to do most of the packing himself and subsequently drag Solas bodily out the premises, _well_ , no judge or jury could certainly be able to make Solas admit it. 

* * *

He wedges himself into Felassan and Abelas’s apartment and becomes the new resident of their couch, and consequently becomes a captive audience to the couple’s disgusting domesticity. _Gods help him._ If he has to witness another clandestine ass grab, he will projectile vomit until he drowns the whole building.

Predictably, Solas and Felassan quickly discover that although they are very good friends, they should not live together lest they end up murdering the other in a fit of well-deserved anger. For the better part of the month, they bicker like an old married couple while Abelas resolutely ignores them, pretending that nothing is amiss. The solitary sign that he is, at all, bothered by this is the miniscule scrunch on his nose, as if smelling something mildly displeasing. 

It takes a while for Solas to look through the listings of prospective apartments. He finds that he keeps subconsciously dismissing some places because of something that Ellana wouldn't like. But then he remembers that he doesn’t have to do that anymore - that their lives are no longer intertwined, that he doesn’t even get the chance to consider every choice he makes in her eyes. And that, in turn, sends him down a slippery slope of melancholia that often either ends up with him stress-baking through the contents of Felassan’s pantry or standing half-freezing in the balcony contemplating the physics of free-fall. 

Felassan finally gets sick of his particular brand of dramatism, and puts his foot down. The raven-haired elf takes it upon himself to dictate which Solas’s new apartment should be. Solas would normally object this, stating how it is _his_ _right_ to be as picky as he pleases when it comes to choosing a new home- 

_Ah shit_.

For the longest time, The House _was_ his home and it was _home_ because Ellana was there beside him. But now she’s gone and he doesn’t know if he remembers how to make a home, just for himself. 

_Whatever._ Felassan could choose a dilapidated hovel, and Solas still wouldn’t be able to bring himself to care. So he just lets Felassan do as he pleases. Fortunately for him, the structural integrity of the apartment Felassan ends up selecting is quite sound. It's a modern pre-furnished one-bedroom apartment with its own small kitchen, just a thirty minute walk to the campus. The exact opposite of The House, and maybe that’s just what Felassan had intended. Maybe it’s exactly what he needs. It is moments like this that Solas thinks of whenever he has to stop himself from wringing his friend’s neck each time he’s being an ass (which he will end up doing anyway if he has to stay here in their house for another day). 

Solas promptly puts out an offer for the place and moves out of the pair’s apartment as soon as it is approved, to the relief of everyone involved (especially the kitchen that had transformed, somehow, into a den of despair and chaos and failed baking experiments somewhere in the middle of Solas’s stay.) 

As soon as they finish unloading his very few personal belongings from the car, Felassan declares, “We should celebrate.” 

Solas looks to his friend, “I _cannot_ even tell if you’re joking right now.” 

The raven-haired just rolls his eyes, “Live a little, won’t you? How long has it been since you went out aside for work?” He gives him a pointed stare. “There's a bar just around the block of your new place. We can check it out.”

Solas supposes that there are very little other opportunities to drown his feelings, so he lets himself be dragged off eventually - after much persuasion from Felassan (consisting mainly of juvenile attacks using his alarmingly sharp elbows). Felassan even manages to badger some of the other members of their weird mismatched friend group into coming that evening. 

  
  
  
  


Of course, Bull and Dorian are already there by the time they arrive, practically sitting on eachother’s laps. Dorian had an uncanny knack for experimental magics and had a very solid grasp on magical theory, something that is becoming progressively rarer these days (even in a scholarly setting, he laments). Their departments often collaborate which led to their unlikely rapport. The Iron Bull, they’d met soon after, brought on by the couple’s compulsion to sneak around the lab in an apparent attempt to have sex on every surface. With that said, Solas has now learned to carefully inspect and disinfect every piece of furniture in the lab before making use of it.

He takes the seat next to Dorian in the circular booth, Felassan sitting on the other side. He’d invited Abelas, but the man only gave him a withering glance as a reply. Although, he would be lying if he said he isn’t thankful that he isn’t the only one without a partner. He doesn’t need anymore reminders, he’s got plenty enough as is. 

“Solas! Congrats on the new place.” He gets the wind knocked out of him, Bull reaching over and giving him a few pats on the back. 

“I had absolute faith in you, _old_ chap,” Dorian grumbles, in a tone that suggests that he _didn’t_ have any faith in Solas whatsoever. 

Before he could form a mildly scathing reply, however, Varric arrives with an exclamation, “Chuckles! I knew you’d get your head out of your ass eventually! You won me a few sovereigns, you know.” 

“And lost me quite a small fortune,” Dorian adds dejectedly. 

“How unfortunate, do allow me to apologize,” he says to the mustachioed man, not at all sorry. He watches the brief exchange of coins between the members of the group with practiced resignation, and laments. 

_These people are his friends_ , he reminds himself. _You mustn't throttle your friends, now._

“Here,” Bull heavily sets a drink of _something_ in front of him. “Puts some chest on your chest.” 

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ” he asks hastily, but Bull only laughs. 

“Drink! We’re supposed to be celebrating!” 

He briefly sniffs the glass and immediately recoils at its biting pungency. He’s pretty sure a drink with that high of an alcohol percentage is illegal in Ferelden. 

“What even is this?” He grits out. 

“Just another kind of tequila,” Bull lies with ease.

“Here, a chaser,” Dorian snorts but shows him mercy by setting a newly-opened bottle of beer beside the glass.

“Drink!” Bull urges again, before downing a shot himself, not even bothering with washing out the taste with beer. 

With that, all his hopes for denying the Qunari were gone. He takes a sip and very nearly spits it out. The entire table erupts in full-bellied laughter. 

“ _Just give me a moment_ ,” the grits out. He allows one brief moment to steel himself before downing the entire glass of what is essentially turpentine. This, he thinks, is what it must feel like to be deepthroated by a fire-breathing high dragon. Apparently he says that out loud, a testament to how strong the beverage was, because the table bursts into another round of raucous laughter. 

The entire situation is a bit more bearable after that plus a few more bottles of beer. The group’s good-natured ribbing stops chafing at him like rough pavement against raw skin, and he even begins to enjoy the company. He isn’t _drunk,_ per se, just a bit over tipsy _._ As much as he craves the torpidity alcohol gives him, he isn’t really willing to get shitfaced. He’s a few years too old for that kind of thing, anyway. 

He lets the conversation wash over him, but makes an effort to respond with a quip or two at appropriate intervals. Mostly though, he just settles into the background and lets the alcohol numb him to the harsh edges of reality. He is contemplating the logistics of becoming one with the settee when Felassan decides to attack him once again with his pike-like elbows. 

_“What?”_ Solas snaps under his breath at the other elf’s third attempt to impale him. Felassan then jerks his head to the side like he’s having an actual seizure, while miming something inscrutably. Clearly, he isn’t the only victim of the dubious tequila. Of course, subtle was never really the man’s strong suit. The rest of the party notices immediately.

“You okay there, gramps?” Varric inquires, a slow conspiratorial smile curling on his lips. 

Felassan then seems to remember how to use his words and clarifies, “That woman over there by the bar’s been looking at Solas for a while now.” The raven-haired elf adds with a wink, “She must be pretty drunk if _you’re_ the one she’s looking at, huh?”

Surely, his friend was mistaken, he thinks. It is Dorian, however, who bursts into a gasp of incredulity, “ _What?!_ Truly?” He begins to look around wildly, like he’d just been told Andraste had just risen from the ground - a true miracle. “ _Who would even_ -”

“Oh shit, he’s right,” Bull interjects, his one eye trained at the general direction of the bar. “Damn, Solas. She’s pretty hot.” 

Even Varric is pulled into it, “Yeah, but she doesn’t seem your type.” 

“I don’t have a _type,_ ” Solas denies reflexively. He most certainly has a type, but his pride will not let him admit it. 

Dorian squeaks in indignation, “Wha- I can’t see- _Where?_ ” He slaps his boyfriend, “Point her out, you big, useless oaf.” 

Clearly, the lack of subtlety was not limited to Felassan. Solas just shoves his face in his hands in embarrassment. Whether or not the woman was staring in the first place, she definitely would be now, with the commotion they’re making. And what a sight it must be. 

“Oh!” Dorian exclaims after a few beats. “That- that’s Cordelia Trevelyan, isn’t it?” 

All heads in the table snap towards the Tevinter mage at his declaration. He pays the new-found attention no mind, however, too transfixed at the woman he is apparently acquainted with.

“Cor!” Dorian calls out, and Solas shoots him an exasperated glare as the Tevinter begins to practically climb over his lap in his haste to reach the woman.

This is when Solas’s curiosity gets the better of him and risks a glance at the said woman. And he finds that Bull is indeed right, she’s pretty - the kind of pretty that’s kind of in-your-face, demanding to be seen. In that, the dwarf was right, Solas doesn’t particularly care for it. 

“Dorian Pavus?!” He hears her say, her voice like whiskey and thick with a Marcher accent. “Is that really _you_?” She breaks off from the rest of her group and practically trips over herself on her way to the dark-skinned mage. 

“Who else would be this fabulous, _hmm_?” Dorian replies tersely once they are close enough. 

The pair meet halfway not far off from the table, and they collide in a clumsy embrace. And at this point, Solas drops all pretenses of not eavesdropping. So does the rest of the table, it seems. Everyone watches with curiosity as the pair exchange words. 

“Who’s your friend there, Sparkles?” Varric calls after a while. The pair seem to remember themselves, and make their way to the booth. 

“This is Cor,” Dorian introduces with an unnecessary flourish. “She’s technically my cousin.” 

The family resemblance is readily apparent upon inspection: dark wavy hair, skin just a shade lighter than Dorian’s, and a slighter but familiar hook on her nose. They even seem to share the same air of aristocracy, although with considerably less flamboyance on her part. Hazel eyes catch his for a brief second, before she shoots him a quick close-lipped smile and looks away. 

She snorts, “Barely. Thrice removed, or something. Never really got into that tracking the bloodline thing.” 

“Thank God for that,” Dorian exhales haughtily. “I don’t need that kind of toxicity in my life right now. 

“Anyway, these are my friends. The blonde with the magnificent chest hair is Varric - a brilliant author of trashy romance serials.”

“Hey!” Varric protests in indignation. 

But Dorian barely hears him and continues on, “The Qunari is Bull. He’s, well, he’s-“

“His _lover,_ ” Bull adds helpfully with a teasing one-eyed wink. 

“He’s a pain in my ass,” Dorian corrects.

“Hah! I bet,” Felassan guffaws. 

“Ugh. You people are terrible,” the human mage says with a withering glare, but managing to sound fond nonetheless. “That elf right there with the smart mouth is Felassan - great mage, terrible humor.” 

“Well aren’t you just brimming with colorful endorsements,” she says with amusement, shaking her head. 

Dorian nods sagely, “my magnanimity knows no bounds, cousin. You know this.” 

“That I do, Dorian. That I do.” Her eyes crinkle as her lips twist into fond smile. “Oh how I’ve missed you, Dorian.” She squeezes Dorian from the side, where her arm is draped over his waist. 

“Oh, I know.” The mage says, his voice uncharacteristically soft for one short second as he presses his cheek on top of the woman’s head. “I would, too.” 

“A very touching family reunion,” Felassan tactfully interrupts. “Although, aren’t you forgetting someone?” 

“Oh, Solas! I didn’t see you there. You’re just so…” Dorian trails off, “ _Nondescript_.” 

Solas could only roll his eyes, “Please do speak up. I can’t hear you over your outfit.” He finishes, feeling very pleased with himself. After a beat, he turns his attention to the brunette. “I am Solas, if there are to be introductions.” 

“Hi Solas,” she greets easily, shooting him a skewed, congratulatory smile. At least he isn’t the only one with an appreciation for witticism. 

“He's the man you’ve apparently been ogling the better half of the night,” Dorian adds, with equal measures of surreal amusement and disbelief. “Really, no accounting for taste,” he tuts.

“ _You’re_ certainly in no position to tell _me_ that, Dorian. _I_ wasn't sighing dreamily every time the noodle-haired Police Academy student was in the vicinity.”

“No, you were too busy making eyes at the blonde iconoclast in the Healing Spec Course.” 

“ _Yes, thank you for that, Dorian._ ” She then proceeds to elbow her cousin. “I think we should stop airing out our dirty laundry for all to see.” 

“Yes, well, my point still stands,” Dorian persists. 

Solas takes it upon himself to steer the conversation away from the topic of their questionable taste into safer waters, “Ah, so you are a mage as well?” 

She seems to be thankful for the subject change, “Yeah, that’s actually how Dorian and I met. My _father_ had no clue what to do with a mage child, so he shipped me off to the closest relative who did.” She inclines her head to the man beside her. “Maker, that was such a long time ago,” she remarks with a hint of nostalgia. 

“I’d rather not be reminded of my age, thank you,” Dorian sighs. “Anyway, where are you staying these days?” 

“I actually just moved around here a month ago. Figured it was about time for a change in scenery,” she ends with a nonchalant shrug. “Anyway, I better head back. My friends are probably itching for me to report back.” She glances back to somewhere near the bar.

“It was nice meeting everyone, though,” her lips quirk into an easy smile. Just as she turns to leave, Solas catches her stealing a brief glance at his direction. She pauses, now aware that she has just been caught in the act. Instead of shying away sheepishly, however, her grin widens ever so slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. As if from thin air, a heavy ominous weight seems to settle in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know how long the moment lasts, exactly, but suddenly feels too much too fast so he looks away. 

After sharing a few quiet words with Dorian, she leaves. Only when Bull knocks the breath out of him the second time today does he realize that he’d been holding his breath. 

“Nice one Solas!” the big giant brute of a man exclaims. 

_“Shut up,”_ he hushes because he’s pretty sure the woman was still within earshot. 

“She seems… _nice,_ ” Felassan asserts after a few uneasy beats. 

“And _way_ too good for you,” Dorian concludes. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Varric adds, clearly amused and cataloging this entire cringe-worthy experience for his next trashy serial. “I don’t think she seems to mind all that much.” 

“I have no interest in pursuing a relationship with that woman,” he declares with a huff. 

“Now nobody said anything about a relationship-” Bull begins but is immediately assaulted by his beau. 

“She. Deserves. Better.” Dorian punctuates each word with a deafening clap. “I’m not letting you make my cousin a rebound.” Then the Tevinter mage begins to do the whole I-got-my-eyes-on-you schtick for at least ten seconds. Solas is just very disappointed that he has to live through this stupidity. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, already feeling the headache threatening to brew, and forces himself to breath in even measured breaths. “I assure you-”

“Wow, Dorian, that’s not very feminist of you” Felassan interrupts, mischief bright in his indigo orbs. “You can’t just dictate who women can and can’t sleep with. What if she _consents_ to being a rebound.” 

_Now this is just ridiculous_ , Solas bemoans. 

“Well, I suppose if she _consents-”_ Dorian begins, but is cut off by Solas’s abrupt rise to his feet. 

“I am going home,” he declares resolutely. He does not look back, despite all the undignified hollering his friends throw at him as he walks away. 

Now, Solas just really, really wants to pass out for a few days. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be longer than I expected HAH 
> 
> but hey!! Our lady trevelyan's finally here 
> 
> anyway just hmu if some parts arent clear or if yalls have questions 
> 
> i wrote this in one manic burst of energy and im probably gonna hate it tomorrow so there are probably gonna be edits 
> 
> (as always, validation gives me life and pressures me into posting guys. validation is key. HAHAHAH)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felassan tries to convince Solas that he needs to get a pet

“Think you should get a pet,” Felassan remarks one afternoon, as they share a cup of coffee in between classes in the faculty lounge. Well, Felassan drinks coffee, while Solas drinks what is essentially creamer and sugar in hot water. 

“Why, pray tell, should I do that?” He inquires, giving his friend the side-eye. 

“Because  _ I  _ want a pet, but Abelas is allergic to anything that has fur. I can’t very well rehome my boyfriend, can I?” His friend asks wryly. 

“And therefore  _ I  _ should get a pet?” Solas clarifies, with increasing perplexity. “Why should  _ I  _ be the one that gets a pet?” 

“So I can live vicariously through you!” Felassan explains, as if he completely missed an obvious point. 

“Plus, one of the dating issues you have is that you have a thing for women that need taking care of,” Felassan adds as-a-matter-a-factly. “At least with a pet you get to do that, but in a relatively healthier dynamic.” 

“One of these days, I will throw a fireball at you, and it will feel absolutely  _ cathartic _ .” Solas grits out, but he knows his friend’s words ring true. 

If that isn’t a call out, Solas doesn't know what is. Despite feeling less and less tolerant of his friend with each word, however, Solas knew there was a kernel of truth in there somewhere. Even when he’d met Ellana, she was struggling to make ends meet; working three jobs to put herself through college while also providing for her family’s needs. There was a part of him that marveled at her indomitable will and tenacity when it came to facing the hardships of life, but if he is truly being honest a bigger part of him had wanted to take her under his wing and shield her from everything. Not that she’d let him, anyway. At least Ellana had allowed him to carry some of the burden, eventually. It’s ironic, he thinks, because even though that burden went away with Ellana, the weight on his chest feels heavier than ever. 

“Cor has a pet,” Dorian remarks completely non sequitur, knocking Solas out of the little pity-party he’d thrown for himself. He notes that there is clear distaste over the tanned mage’s features. “Disgusting- slobbering- big hulking  _ thing-” _

“Now that’s not a very nice way to describe your  _ boyfriend _ ,” Felassan interjects, clearly proud with himself. 

“Oh shut up, you.” Dorian attempts to swat Felassan at the back of his head, but the elf manages to dodge at the last minute. 

The brief exchange reminds Solas about something he’d read years ago. There’s this phenomenon where after learning a new word, you then begin to see it everywhere. Solas, for the life of him, can’t recall what that exact phenomenon is called, and pride won’t let him give up and google it. Because it’s at the tip of his tongue. He  _ knows _ what it is. He doesn’t need help. Not at all. 

_ Anyway,  _

Cordelia Trevelyan was kind of like a new word. Now that he knows of her existence, it seems that he sees her touch everywhere in his small world. Dorian mentions her all the time because of course he does. The cousins have begun to spend an inordinate amount of time together, from what Solas gathers. Once or twice ~~(~~ ~~it was four times~~ ~~)~~ , Dorian snidely mentions that Cordelia had asked after him. He doesn’t quite know what to make of that. So he simply takes Dorian’s ribbing in quiet contemplation. 

Bull talks about her, too sometimes. Mostly just some colorful conspiracy theories and a working psychoanalytical theory regarding her (as is custom to anyone that meets their group), but Solas learns to pay those little mind. Even the Bull, however, admits that the cousins meeting again has been good for Dorian. 

Additionally, Varric, as unlikely as it seems, mentions seeing her in the bar they’d previously been in. He also casually notes that for someone who hangs out in a bar most nights, she turns out to be a laughable lightweight. Solas wouldn’t know. He hasn’t been back in the bar since, and he’d be lying if he said he isn’t avoiding the place, at least a little bit.

But he knows it’s only a matter of time before they meet once again, with how inadvertently intertwined their lives seems to be. He doesn’t really understand the magnitude of the anxiety that he has apparently associated with the woman. He doesn’t even know her, truthfully. But he also knows that it’s been a long time since he’d played this game, and he was considerably out of practice. 

_ Ugh.  _

No, that’s wrong. There is  _ no _ game, he is  _ not interested _ , he reminds himself. Not one bit. 

His feelings for Ellana have in no way abated, even more so the perpetual all-consuming despair that the elf’s departure had inflicted upon him. His chest still feels as though it’s been run through with a barb-wired lance. It doesn’t feel like a wound that will ever heal. Hence, this was no time to acknowledge the interest of another person, much less attempt to reciprocate it. 

“Hey, Solas,” Felassan pulls him out of his rapid downward spiral. His friend has been having to do that a lot lately, it seems. 

“You okay there, Falon?” The raven-haired elf asks, although they already both know the answer.

A nod is the response he is capable of giving, at that moment. 

* * *

As if the world was out to test and torture him, Cordelia Trevelyan bumps into him at the park one afternoon during his leisurely weekend stroll. He doesn't even recognize that it’s her, at first. She’s wearing a loose hoodie, leggings and a pair of running shoes. Her wild dark locks have been pulled back and tamed into a tight ponytail, leaving her face completely exposed.

“Solas!” A familiar skewed grin makes its way to her face. “I was wondering when I’d run into you.” 

Upon taking a few steps closer, he can make out the dark circles beneath her eyes, the pimple patch on her forehead and the small beauty mark on top of her left cheekbone. Belatedly, he realizes that she isn’t wearing makeup. He notes that it makes her look a lot…  _ softer,  _ somehow. 

She clears her throat, when the silence has grown uncomfortable. Only then does he realize that he’s been staring.  _ Get yourself together, _ he chastises himself. He is in his forties, for fucks sake. He shouldn’t regress into a dumbfounded fool everytime a pretty girl does as much as look at him. 

“Ah, Cordelia,” he congratulates himself at how deceptively calm he manages to make himself sound. “It’s good to see you.” 

Almost comically, her face scrunches into distaste. “Please don’t call me that,” she pleads. 

“It’s your name,” he supplies, only half teasing. 

Rolling her eyes she retorts, “Well, it’s a terrible name, and it makes me feel like I’m a seventy year-old cat lady.” 

“Now we can’t have that,” he acquiesces. 

“No, clearly not a cat lady,” she agrees with a smile, while showing him a the black leather leash bunched up in her hand. 

If he was a strong man, he would have ended the conversation right there, but he finds himself asking anyway, “You’re out walking your dog, then? Dorian mentioned you had a pet.” He’s just being  _ friendly _ , he tells himself. Completely reasonable small talk. 

“I’m surprised you’d remember something like that,” she says with a smirk, her voice thick like honey.

_ I remember everything about you,  _ Solas valiantly fights the urge to say.  _ No _ , they are not flirting, he insists, they’re just two acquaintances having a pleasant conversation.  Instead, he shrugs, “I’ve always been good at listening.” 

Instead of being deterred by his rebuff, her grin widens as she quips, “He’s a listener! Every middle aged woman’s wet dream.”

This makes Solas choke on his own spit, because of course he does. He contemplates turning tail and running away to the opposite direction to lick his wounds. 

Thankfully, though, she seems to take mercy in him and changes the topic, “Anyway, how are you with dogs?”

Curious, he begins unsurely, “They’re alright I suppose. I can’t really say I’ve had much experience with them.” 

She nods in understanding, “Would you like to meet one, though?” 

“I- I suppose?” He hears himself say. But before he could think of what she means to do, she turns to the open field.

“Evie!” She calls out. Soon after, he sees a creature that looks like a bear lazily disguised as a dog charging towards them. His first instinct, like any other sane person, is to bolt. But Cordelia only opens her arms in welcome, as the boulder of fur crashes into her. He watches in horror as the thing begins to lick every exposed surface of her face. It is not exactly disgust that he feels, but it is close. Then, she turns to him, sees his horrified expression, and laughs. It seems his higher brain processes decide to halt at the sight before him.  After that, all he feels is a lightness in his chest and a novel tingling sensation in his stomach. He finds himself laughing with her. It feels like the seconds have been stretched into years while he watches the sides of her eye crinkle with mirth and her lips part with a relieved smile.  She trails off yet her gaze remains locked in his. Her eyes are molten gold, he notes, only the barest hints of brown and green peaking shyly at the edges of her iris. 

“What is it?” He asks.

“You’ve got a nice laugh,” she replies, only just a bit breathlessly. “You should laugh more often.” 

He scoffs with a shake of his head, “I will try.” He’s not blushing- he is  _ not,  _ ~~_ but the telltale warmth of his ears speak otherwise. _ ~~

“That is all I ask.” She gives him a wry smile.

“Evie, sit,” she commands, and the dog follows immediately. 

“Good girl,” she coos and gives the dog its well-deserved ear scratches'. 

“This is Evie,” she says now to him, “She’s my baby girl.” 

“Hello, Evie, Cordelia’s baby girl,” he greets teasingly, as he kneels before the majestic beast. The dog barks in delight the same time Cordelia’s nose scrunches in distaste. 

“Stop calling me that,” she snaps lightheartedly.

“No, I don’t think I will.” It is wiser, he thinks, if he’d simply just stop antagonizing her. But he discovers that he likes the way her normally aquiline nose scrunches  ~~ adorably ~~ whenever he calls her by her full name. 

“Oh  _ really.  _ I must heed you to remember that I have the advantage here, sir.” 

He scoffs, and begins with a challenging tone, “And what advantage is that?” 

An evil glint plays in her eyes at this, and he realizes that whatever she has in store, he will likely immediately regret ever teasing her. 

“Evie, give Solas a few kisses for me. Kisses.” 

The dog eagerly does as commanded, immediately starting to pepper Solas's face with slobbery licks. He holds his hands in front of him as a meek form of defense but there is only so much he can do against fifty kilograms of pure muscle, love and affection. Only when its human calls it back does the dog stop, with an undeniably smug expression. 

“Hah! Your face,” Cordelia manages to squeeze out between fits of laughter. 

“Yes, I am ever so glad my misfortune can be some form of entertainment for you.” He schools his face to a stern expression, but his heart isn’t in it. He attempts to wipe the slobber of his face with his hands but manages only to spread it even more.  _ Ugh _ , this was terrible.

“For what it’s worth, I  _ sincerely _ apologize,” she amends, not sounding sorry at all. But she pulls a pack of wipes from her knapsack for him anyway.

They sit in companionable silence under the shade of the sycamore tree, wiping all the slobber left on their respective faces. The dog bumbles between the two of them, soliciting pats as payment for its thorough job in salivating on the both of them. It stares at him pleadingly, and Solas discovers that he is a very, very weak man. Predictably, Solas spends the next fifteen minutes with the dog’s head on his lap, enjoying the sensation of Solas’s hands running absentmindedly over its mane. Cordelia, on the other hand, seems to be very pleased with this development as evidenced by the wide smile he'd often catch her sending the two of them. 

~~_ Gods, she is so beautiful. _ ~~ __

_ Fuck.  _ He can’t go having those thoughts.  _ No.  _ He shouldn’t- he musn’t- 

As if out of thin air, an unfathomable weight on his chest makes itself known, alongside a rock that lodges itself in the back of his throat. His head feels light, but a sharpness prods painfully at his temples. 

Solas knows Guilt. It is a feeling he has been intimately acquainted with ever since he was a young man, an unwilling prisoner of his own overactive conscience. The shackles around his feet are almost comforting in their familiarity.  Theoretically, he is aware that he does not owe Ellana his suffering, his quiet martyrdom. But he has come to learn that what he knows and what he feels do not often coincide. The possibility of happiness feels too much like betrayal. And he cannot help but feel that he doesn’t deserve it, anyway.

Cordelia, completely oblivious to his thoughts, calls out to him, “Hey Solas, are you alright?” 

She rests the warmth of her palm against his shoulder. The sensation is enough to ground him but the overwhelming panic does not truly dissipate.

“I am fine,” he manages to squeeze out. “I should go back home. I have a lot to do.” 

He makes an abrupt attempt to stand, which startles the dog on his lap. Once on his feet he dusts off his clothes before turning to her to say goodbye. But the worried expression on her face makes him pause. 

“I’m fine, truly,” and as he says it, feels truer than the first time. “I just need to go.”

“Okay,” she says reluctantly, her feathered brows still knitted.  “I’ll see you soon, okay? Please take care of yourself, Solas.” Her voice is low and even, clearly attempting to calm him still. Solas appreciates the thought, at least.

“Goodbye, Cordelia.”

He walks away, but halfway through he realizes that he has gone the wrong way; that he’s walking back to The House instead of his new apartment; that after years of tracing the same route over and over his body will always register The House as home; that he is doomed to repeat the same patterns that he has worked so hard to bleach clean from his system. 

Mythal’s words in unbiddenly ring through his head: _Remember that to love is to be weak, Fen'lin. Do not have so much of it that this world will be capable of shattering you._

He thinks that it's a bit too late for that. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh this was supposed to be longer but i decided to split the chapter into bits because i fell like it works better that way? ++ extra build up. 
> 
> What did ya'll think? I'm dying to hear your thoughts so far!!


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